


We Are Night Sky

by zellloveshotdogs



Category: Final Fantasy VIII
Genre: Acts of Kindness, Aftermath of Torture, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Assault, Bad Decisions, Depression, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Language, Hostage Situations, Idiots in Love, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Loss of Control, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Assault, Rape Aftermath, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-23 10:08:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16156895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zellloveshotdogs/pseuds/zellloveshotdogs
Summary: A bad mission leaves 29 year old  Zell broken in a hundred different ways. His body has healed, but there are festering sores on his soul left unattended.  Seifer is forever marked by his role in the war, a forgotten victim that shouldered the worst of the blame.Neither is what anyone would call okay. Seifer guts fish and collects bottles on the beach to earn extra cash to fuel his drinking habit.  Zell writes farewell letters he tosses into the sea, and spends his nights dreaming up ways to die.When there's no one else to turn to, even your worst enemy is better than no one at all.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Final Fantasy is property of Square-Enix.  I do not own Final Fantasy 8 or any of its characters.)

 

 

 

 

 

> _"There is starlight in your blood_  
>  _It seems that our shadows are wearing us."_
> 
> Evil Friend _- **Deadboy & The** **Elephantmen**_

**\---**

It's late. The hour undetermined. The only things that move are the boats moored in the port and the slow, steady roll of the tide to shore. He might be the only one left awake in this entire town that he used to call home.

Home.

He can't go home. He's drunk again and Ma won't let him in.

Garden wouldn't turn him away. He's their property, after all, but they're the reason for the bottle in his hand and the the cause of wounds etched too deep to heal inside his head. They're the _reason_ for the second bottle beside him.

It's empty but for the rolled up farewell inside. His final soliloquy. Not particularly poetic a goodbye, but it will suffice.

It's too much. Too much. He's gonna _drown_ in it.

He takes a pull from the bottle. It's the cheap stuff. Better used for stripping paint than ingesting, but it does what it's supposed to and he can't bear to shell out the cash for something classy.  He has his Ma to think of.  Wants to leave something for her after he's gone.

He's already wasted. Wants to be more wasted than this. Wants to drink until he's brave enough to submerge himself in salt water and never surface again.

Tonight. _Tonight_. He's going to finally end this, for good.

 

 

  
7 months, 5 days and 9 hours ago, Zell Dincht returned from a mission strapped to a gurney. Both legs were broken. His left wrist, too. Ribcage crushed. His body, a collection of scrapes and lacerations and bruises. His jaw, dislocated, and the vision in his right eye compromised.

Every breath he took was a struggle. A terrifying rattle in his chest. He couldn't get enough air.

 _Drowning_.

He smelled and felt worse than shit, but Squall's face hovered above him and a hand slipped around his bicep. A creepy-crawly sensation at his touch, an immediate aversion, and his mind perceived not support, but danger.

_I'm here. You're alive. I'm here._

Zell closed his eyes. Squall's chant soothed him where his touch did not. Lights flashed behind his closed lids. Sparks. Phantoms.

He was home. It was over. The worst was behind him.

“It's bad,” Dr. Kadowaki said. “He'll require surgery immediately if I'm to save him. Even that isn't a guarantee.”

There was a question in her voice. A question Zell would later wish Squall answered differently.

“Then do it,” Squall said.

“He's signed a _do not resuscitate_ order,” she said. “If I lose him -”

Squall cut her off, but Zell didn't hear his reply. His ears filled with the sound of the sea, waves crashing against rock and a steady one-note singing.

All the lights in the room winked out one by one.

 

 

  
Zell peels himself up out of the sand beneath the dock. He sways and wraps an arm around the nearest piling to steady himself. His other arm is curled around the nearly empty bottle. Only a sip left, but he's not gonna waste it. He'll drink that before he strips off his shoes and steps headlong into the sea to meet his maker.

The idea of drowning, of dying in the embrace of something so vast is more appealing than drinking poison or eating a bullet from his service pistol. Mother ocean will welcome him home, make him food for fishes, and his bones will grind to sand. He will become one with her, his very essence spread out to every corner of the globe.

It's a poetic end. Becoming one with creation. He'll still exist but without a consciousness. Without the pain and shame of his life as it is. All of that will be behind him.

No more bad dreams. No more lies. No more waiting for someone to finally see it in the lines on his face. He can't ask for help.  No one can help him.

He lets go of the piling and takes a step forward. The world starts to spin.

Crawling would be easier. He's drunk enough that he can justify this, but he wants to go out with his head held high.

 

 

 

Zell died on the operating table. For five full minutes, his heart ceased to beat.

For five full minutes, he knew what it meant to be at peace.

He remembered it. Not the spectacular lights of heaven or fluffy white clouds in the palace of the Gods, but a calm, drifting sensation. Like floating on his back in the ocean beneath a clear blue sky. Nowhere to be, no responsibility. No pain. No memories. His soul purged of sin.

Then it slipped away and he was back, wrists bound in duck tape and every inch of his body a church choir of pain. Hands, touching. Hurting.

For over a week, Zell's vitals improved, worsened, improved, and worsened again. Dr. Kadowaki believed he would not come back intact. His friends held vigil over him in turns. Selphie wept and pleaded. Irvine consoled Selphie. Rinoa tried magic. Quistis read interesting articles aloud from the paper in case he could hear her.

Squall said nothing, but he was there the most. Watching. Waiting.

If Cid came, it was to see if his investment would continue to turn a profit or not. There was talk of discharging him and returning him to Ma Dincht. A full recovery was not expected.

Ma was only allowed in once, and they asked her not to come back. Too disruptive, they said. Interfered with his recovery. Might've called Cid a cocksucker and told Dr. Kadowaki to go fuck herself. He couldn't blame her for either.

Zell slept and healed. Wounds closed up. Bones mended.

There was no salve, no potion or magic, for the wounds no one could see.

 

 

 

“Where do you think you're going?”

The voice is gravelly, little used, but familiar. All the hair on Zell's body stands on end at the recognition of it. He puts a name to it and spins gracelessly in the sand, one arm still in its protective embrace around the bottle, a fist raised.

He takes a swing and his hand connects with something rough and hard instead of Almasy's face. His knuckles split, skin tearing open and a bone in his index finger breaks with a too-familiar pop. If it hurts, he doesn't know it. The pain is just a throbbing pulse beneath his skin.

There is laughter. A gritty, hacking sound. Like he hasn't laughed once in the last twelve years.

“Mother _fucker_!”

“Good to see you, too, Chicken-wuss.”

Zell sways, reaches for the piling, but slides to the ground. He lands on his ass and folds himself around the bottle. Seifer will try to take the last sip for himself. That can't happen. Zell _needs_ it.

Seifer looks as bad off as Zell. A scruffy beard. Long, stringy hair. The distinct scent of ocean and fish guts on his clothes. Only the scar identifies him. Old and puckered and faded, but still there. A mirror image of Squall's.

“Fuck. You look like something Poseidon barfed up.”

“Back at'cha.”

Seifer laughs. It's a warm baritone, full of life.

It doesn't fit. Seifer should be the one eaten alive by the past. It should have siphoned the best parts of him out and left him nothing more than a husk shaped like a man.

Zell did everything right. He followed the rules. Did what he was told.

It wasn't his fault. Wrong place, wrong time, a clusterfuck of a mission.  He's lucky to be alive or so they tell him.  Zell no longer believes in luck.  

And here's Seifer, quite possibly as drunk as Zell, laughing like it's his best day ever.

Zell uncaps the bottle and sucks down the last of his cheap liquor before Seifer can take it away from him. Savors the burn on his tongue, in his throat, and it spreads out inside his chest and soothes the lurking monster that won't be caged.

It's not fucking _fair_. 

That's the last of it and it will be hours before he can find more.

He tosses the bottle aside and flops back into the sand.

Death won't come tonight.

Maybe tomorrow.

 

  
He woke up for good two weeks after his surgery with oxygen tubes in his nose and Hyne knew what plugged into the veins of his arms. One tube fed pale yellow liquid into his bloodstream. The other, something clear. A third snaked out from under the sheets and disappeared over the edge of the bed.

That one brought bile to the back of his throat. A violation. One more to add to the list.

Quistis sat by the door, a newspaper unfurled in her lap and a half eaten bagel held between two fingers. The clock on the wall said it was going on six in the morning.

Zell opened his mouth to say something, but only a dry rattle came out. Quistis took a bite of the bagel and turned the page.

He tried again. Shifted his upper body to sit up but pain split him in half. Gasping, he dropped back into the pillow and clenched his teeth through the firestorm in his chest.

Quistis moved to his side and swept a hand across his forehead. Her smile was sunshine and tenderness.

“About time you woke up,” she said. “We were starting to plan for the worst.”

Quistis. Beautiful, fucked up, perpetually insecure Quistis. Always trying to reclaim her status as the prodigy who could do no wrong, a shining star who burned out too soon. 

 _This_ place did that to her.  Talented. Smart. They pushed her too hard before she was ready because she was _special_.  

She cleared her throat.  Touched him in a loving, motherly way.  

"We thought you were going to die, Zell."

If only. There were things worse than death.

“Just relax,” she said. “I'll get the doctor.”

The scent of home wafted in from the open window above his bed.

He was home. He was safe.

It was over.

Dr. Kadowaki bustled in alone with a warm greeting and a smile. She checked tubes and monitors and wrote things on her clip board. Said something about oxygen levels and tests. Zell wasn't listening.

Eventually, the doctor rolled her chair to his bedside and stilled.

She knew what happened. It was written all over her face.

Of course she knew.  She was a doctor.  A thorough exam would have yielded evidence enough of all the things they'd done to him. Broken bones and punctured lungs were the least of it.

He hated her pity. So much so that if moving didn't hurt like hell, he would have taken a swing, just to make it go away.

“Would you like to talk, Zell?”

Talk.

About what?

“Naw, I'm good,” he said.

Dr. Kadowaki clicked her tongue at him. Like he was some naughty child and not a grown man. Almost thirty years old and still treated like a boy.

“You've been through a great deal,” she said. “Sometimes, it can be very helpful to speak to someone in the aftermath of – _trauma_ of this sort.”

Trauma. It wasn't trauma. He'd been leveled. Bulldozed like a condemned building.

His skin prickled. His stomach twisted. He'd rather fight Ultimecia again than ever say it out loud.

“I'm okay,” he said. “Glad to be home. Now, tell me when the hell I'm getting outta here, Doc.”

Just like that, Zell buried it.

Over. Done.

Part of the job.

 

 

He's dimly aware of an upside-down world, a steady rocking to and fro and maybe that means he's accomplished his final mission.

It doesn't feel like drowning. The air around him is warm and humid. He smells brine on the breeze.

He's not dying. Someone is carrying him. _Somewhere_.

No.

Not again.

Not _again_.

He struggles and his captor's hold tightens around the back of his knees. He kicks and claws. His stomach knots up and his mouth fills with saliva.

“Stop fucking moving,” Seifer says. “You _want_ me to drop you?”

“Just kill me,” Zell says through a nasty wave of nausea. “Finish it.”

He's going to throw up. If he vomits, he'll be safe again. Seifer doesn't do well with puke. Might even puke himself because of it.

Zell lets go and the contents of his stomach spill from his mouth and out his nostrils. He chokes and coughs on bits of supper caught in his throat, and there's a burning from whatever got stuck in his sinuses. Hot dog. Relish. Who knows. Or cares.

Seifer swears and drops him on the ground. Zell pukes again. And again. And again until it's all gone and he's near unconscious.

He lays there on the cobblestones for so long, he thinks Seifer has cut and run. He closes his eyes, fully prepared to sleep on the sidewalk – _he doesn't care who finds him_ – when hands lift him again.

“You're a fucking trainwreck, Dincht,” Seifer says. “On your feet. Walk it off.”

Zell does.

He doesn't know how Seifer knows where his Ma's house is, only that they're standing on the welcome mat outside. He is not welcome here. Neither are.

The door opens a crack and half Ma's face is revealed in the streetlights.

She shakes her head, the only eye he can see hard and cold as winter in Trabia.

“No,” she says. “Not again, Zell. I told you, I can't do this.”

“Mrs. Dincht -”

“ _No_ ,” she says. “I'm sorry. I love you, Zell, but I can't clean you up anymore. I can't do it.”

Seifer stops her from closing the door.

“He's your kid, ain't he?” Seifer asks. “ _Take care of him_.”

Ma shakes her head. There are tears in her eyes. Those eyes are not cold anymore. Just sad.  

No, not sad. _Heartbroken_.

The answer is still no. It will always be _no_ until he cleans himself up.

“You're his mother.  He _needs_ you," Seifer says. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

“He don't want my help.”

Zell does and he _doesn't_. Just like he wants to live _and_ wants to die. She can't help him until he finds the bottom, and Zell is still lost in free fall.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

God. What a fucking _mess_.

Seifer's always known Dincht had a few untreated emotional issues. He remembers – back at the orphanage, he used to sit in a corner and hit himself when he fucked up. He was prone to fits of temper. Couldn't sit still. Got wound up over stupid bullshit. Over _nothing_.

 _This_ – this is something else.

Seifer doesn't know why he cares. He should leave the idiot on his mother's doorstep for her to sort out in the morning. He should but he won't. There's something about this particular brand of drunk that Seifer understands.

He's been there.

Hell. He was there two days ago. Drank himself into a near coma in a lifeguard stand at the far end of the beach and woke up with a pair of seagulls trying to mate on his head. Woke up wondering why he wasn't dead already.

He knows this.

Nonetheless, he steers Dincht away and down three blocks to his own tiny broom closet of an apartment above the hardware store. Not the nicest part of town, but not the worst.

He pushes Dincht up a narrow set of stairs with both hands and holds him upright until they reach the landing. Opens the door, left unlocked, because who the fuck would be stupid enough? Not like he has shit to steal.

Inside, he flicks on the light and pretends not to see the roaches scatter. Dincht lurches for the nearest piece of furniture, which happens to be one of two in the room, and flops face first into the thin mattress.

Fuck. This was a terrible idea.

Should have left him there. Shouldn't have bothered.

Seifer shrugs off the flannel shirt he wears like a jacket and tosses it into a corner where a stack of boxes that still need unpacking have been sitting for the last six months. Seifer's come home, _at last_ , but there are no arms to welcome him, no parades or cheers.

If he's honest with himself, this is not home. It's just the last place he felt more or less okay.

< _everything, everything, it's all yours take it take it it's yours_ >

Monsters don't get a hero's welcome. Seifer is no hero. That, at least, he's come to terms with. That, at least, he knows is true.

It's all the rest he can't be sure of anymore.

 

 

Birthdays at Garden were no big deal. Not for the permanent residents. The kids without families.

Sometimes, there were small gifts from close friends. Sometimes, one of the lunch ladies would get wind of it and slip a hot dog or frosted doughnut onto a child's tray, but there were no parties or pretty cakes to celebrate the passing of another year.

It was just another day. Another year older. Another day closer to adulthood.

At age 14, Seifer had seen birthday parties in movies and read about them in books, but he'd never been invited to one before.

He didn't expect to be invited to Zell Dincht's 13th birthday bash. Didn't really even like the kid. Dincht couldn't shut up or sit still and he was in the running for the biggest whiner in the entire Garden.

Somewhere between 3rd and 4th hour, the invitation found its way to his dorm. His name was scrawled on the envelope, so it was no mistake.

Seifer laughed and chucked the envelope into the trash.

Right.

Like he was going to waste his Saturday hanging out with Dincht.

 

 

  
Dincht is out. Snoring. Drooling into the sheets. That stupid tattoo is all Seifer can see of his face.

Seifer leaves him there and returns to the dock where he found Dincht staggering toward the sea.

Two bottles lay in the sand. Seifer collects them.

He's about to add them to the bag he abandoned at the head of the pier, his mission before Dincht's drunken _whatever_ interrupted him – trash turned into cash for drink – when he notices the rolled up bit of paper inside one of them.

It's not the first time he's found one of these. There have been more than 2 dozen over the last six months. Always cheap liquor, always a sob story of a suicide note inside. Usually long and morose. Desperate words. A shout into the void.

Seifer unrolls the note and reads, as he always does.

> _Don't cry for me, okay? It's better this way. Love you guys._
> 
> _Peace,_  
>  _Z.D._

This one is not like the others. It sounds final.

Seifer stops and stares out at the near invisible horizon. Thinks about all the other letters stashed away under his kitchen sink in a plastic bag.

There are 26 of them. He can't say why he kept them. He's not the sort to hold onto sentimental things and he's not the kind of guy who cares about other people or their struggles.

Knowing this came from Dincht, though. That bothers him. He can't say why.

He stuffs the letter into his pocket, the bottles into the bag, and continues on down the narrow strip between the seawall and the harbor. Dawn isn't so far away, and he can't afford to be late to work again.

 

 

Raijin and Fujin received invitations too. The three of them laughed about it later at dinner. They mocked the whole idea. Birthday parties were for little kids.

Kids with two parents and real friends.

“Bet there'll be balloons, y'know?” Raijin said. His grin was huge and toothy.

“Clowns,” Fujin said.

Raijin's smile fell and he shuddered.

“Don't like clowns, y'know?”

“Creepy,” Fujin agreed.

“Yo, what if there's cake?” Raijin asked. He perked up at the thought, his sweet tooth triggered. “Like one of those bakery things with all the flowers and shit?”

Seifer scoffed and stabbed a spear of broccoli with his fork. Wasn't worth enduring three hours as Dincht's captive audience.

“Maybe we should go, y'know?” Raijin said. “Just for kicks, y'know?'

“No,” Seifer said. “Hell no.”

 

 

Sometimes, Seifer can't believe they trust him with a fillet knife.

He's a monster after all. The monster who held this town hostage. A danger to everyone around him. What's to say he might not lose his shit and stab someone for funzies?

They're all thinking it. The others stay clear of him and his workstation, where piles of fish await his blade.

He's still drunk, but his hand does not shake. One by one, he strips off scales, guts and removes entrails, squeezes roe into a separate bin, beheads and takes off the fins and tail, and sends it on to be packed and shipped.

This is his job. Day in, day out. Gut and clean, gut and clean. Try not to let the reek of dead fish get to him.

He used to love seafood. The briny scent of fish markets.

Now, he can barely stomach the thought.

After his shift is done, he rinses himself off in the sea. Strips down to his underwear, scrubs fish guts from his skin and clothes with sand. Swims out until he can't touch the bottom and floats on his back on the gentle, rolling tide.

Some days, he can't stand to spend longer than necessary in the water. On those days, when the daemons tear at his insides and shriek for sustenance, he does the bare minimum to get clean.

Today, he's okay. Okay enough to spend a few minutes with the expanse of the sky above him and the quiet of the sea all around him. Okay enough to delay his inevitable trek to the liquor store for his daily bottle.

It's Dincht he thinks of as he drifts southward on the current.

Should have left him on his Ma's doorstep. Let her deal with it.

Seifer remembered her. Not from the war. The birthday party, the year Zell turned thirteen.

 

 

  
He showed up on the Dincht's doorstep an hour late and sweaty from the long walk in unseasonably warm weather.

The other cadets took the shuttle. It ran three times a day on weekends from Garden to Balamb and back, but Raijin wanted to look for bugs and Seifer couldn't stand the thought of riding alongside the smug upperclassmen on their way to the beach.

Dincht's Ma opened the door, all smiles. She greeted them warmly and offered unwanted hugs.

The house smelled like fresh bread. Decorations hung from the ceiling. A pile of gifts dominated the coffee table.

Two boys sat at opposite ends of the couch, not speaking - that kid whose name Seifer could never remember, and Wimbly- _fucking_ -Donner of all people - while a gaggle of female cadets in shorts and sleeveless tops huddled in one corner giggling.

Others that Seifer didn't know stood around a pile of CD's arguing about what song to play next. Townies, he guessed. They had the look of Balamb natives. Soft. Perpetually tan. Board shorts and graphic tees with fish on them. This town loved it some fish.  

Fujin added their group gift to the pile and stood aside. Seifer didn't know or care what she picked out. He hoped it was something dumb and insulting.

The group of girls parted and Dincht emerged, scowling like Seifer pissed in his bed.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

“You invited us, y'know?” Raijin said.

“Psh. Cid said I had to invite the whole class,” Dincht said. “I didn't think you'd _actually_ show up.”

“Too bad. We're here,” Seifer said. “Gonna make us leave?”

Dincht cracked his knuckles.

“I should.”

“You and what army?”

Dincht growled under his breath and lurched forward, but Quistis, lean and gangly and wearing a short dress, stepped between them.

“Stop,” she said. “If you came to pick a fight, I suggest you leave.”

“I just came for cake, Chocobo Legs,” Seifer said, “and I was _invited_.”

Quistis tried not to wince at his cruel but accurate nickname for her. 

“ _Then cool it_.”

Ice and steel. Fun to fuck with, but Quistis could fuck him up in return. If she really wanted to. He heard she'd already passed the written exam and planned to take the field exam as soon as she turned 15. A goddamned prodigy.  

“Is everything all right, dear?” Ma Dincht asked.

“Everything's just fine, ma'am,” Seifer said. “Thank you for having us.”

“I'm so pleased to see so many of Zell's friends from Garden came to celebrate,” she said. “I was worried he wouldn't fit in, and after last year -”

“Ma!”

“Why don't you help me in the kitchen, dear?” Ma said.

Her hand latched around Seifer's forearm. It wasn't a request. It was an order.

Seifer played along. Easily fell into the part of a helpful young man the way he did when he wanted to con a lunch lady out of an extra, unauthorized treat. Ma Dincht ate it up.

She asked about his studies like they'd known each other their whole lives. Asked if he liked being at Garden full time. Quizzed him about his hobbies and what books he liked best.

Wondered gently and cautiously about his parents.

Parents. _Ha_. Didn't know them, didn't want to know them, and if they were alive, he didn't want to meet them.

He helped slice fresh baked bread and sampled cookies. Carried things to the table for her. She fawned all over him like a television mom.

Disturbing, how much he secretly liked it. Being the center of attention, the receiver of motherly affection.

Was this what it was like to have a mother? A home?

Not his thing, but only because he knew nothing but Garden and their rigid, oppressive rules.

What would it be like, to have townie friends and birthday parties? To _not_ be so touch-starved, he didn't go to pieces when someone handled him with kindness?

His brain said lame, stupid, boring.

But there was a part of him that wished for a different sort of life.

 

 

The bottles net him a whopping 41 Gil. Enough to buy a couple bottles to tide him over. There's nothing in his fridge but ketchup packets and a box of take-out that's been there since he moved in. He considers limiting himself to one bottle and buying some food.

He won't eat it, it'll just go bad, and at three in the morning, he'll run out of liquor and kick himself for not buying the second bottle.

Brand doesn't matter. He gets what's on special, whatever is cheap, and trudges home to his apartment to sleep for a while. He'll wake up well after sunset, start drinking, collect his bottles until sunrise, and go back to work.

That is his routine. Routine is one vestige of Garden he could never quite shake off. Structure keeps him from going off the rails.

Dincht is still there. Passed out, face down in Seifer's bed. Tangled in the sheets, his knuckles pressed close to his lips.

Back at the orphanage, Dincht sucked his thumb.

Seifer remembers. Matron put hot sauce on it to make him stop. God, how Dincht screamed.

It would be called child abuse now. Back then, it was how things were done. There were a lot of things that were okay in those days that wouldn't fly anymore.

Spankings. Time-out. Raising orphans to become killers for hire. Giving them no fucking choice in the matter.

It's all different now. Kids these days are softer. They don't know suffering.

He checks the time. It's just past noon. Dincht should be awake by now.

Seifer takes the letter out of his pocket, smooths out the creases. An awful feeling crawls through him.

 _He's dead_.

If he is, Seifer doesn't want to know. He can't make himself find out.

He sits down on the ratty couch that smells like dirty feet and uncaps the first bottle of the day. A few pulls will help him sleep. He'll save the rest for later.

Seifer does not sleep.

He finds the letters he should have thrown away a long time ago and compares them to the new one.

The handwriting is the same.

He re-reads them, one by one, and pieces start to fall into place. The picture isn't clear, but something devastating must have happened to bring Dincht this low.

But it's not like Seifer cares.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags have been updated to reflect story content. Please read them. Content mentioned is implied and not explicit, but please use caution in case it's triggering for you.
> 
> And thanks for your support!

There's sand in the bed. It sticks to his bare arms and legs and has worked its way under his muscle shirt. Ten thousand tiny little knives stab into his skin when he rolls over, and he catches a whiff of stale vomit on the sheets.

This is not his room. Not his dorm. Where he is and how he got here are both a mystery, but it might not be the first time he's woken in a strange place he doesn't recognize.

He groans and kicks at the sheets that have wound around his calves and ankles. His bones ache deep down and he longs for the bottle of little pink pills on his desk back at Garden. Something to thwart the pain before it starts.

“Fucking _finally_ ,” a too-familiar voice says. “It's only three in the afternoon.”

Zell sits up and regrets going vertical so fast. His head throbs and his stomach protests the sudden movement. Seifer is draped across the couch, half dressed, holding a bottle of liquor against his chest, looking like he just woke up in some trash can somewhere down by the fish market.

“Shit,” Zell says. His throat hurts. “What time is it?”

“Just fuckin' said,” Seifer mutters. “Goin' on three.”

“Shit,” Zell says again with more urgency. “I gotta go.”

He's already hours late. His first class started at 9. Self defense for junior cadets. He's already missed six classes this semester, and the semester only started three weeks ago. He can't miss another. He's already on a final warning.

Not that he really cares. He's hanging on by a thread and everyone knows it. The instructor job is just a last ditch effort to drag him out of the downward spiral he's been stuck in for the last six months.

“I just washed those sheets,” Seifer says.

“And I care because?” Zell asks. His bare feet hit threadbare carpet. He doesn't know where his shoes are. “Where the hell are my shoes?”

“I'll tell you when you throw some cash my way,” Seifer says. “Laundry ain't cheap and this ain't a hotel."

Zell finds his wallet in his pocket and opens it. He plucks out a twenty Gil bill and tosses it on the bed.

“That should cover it,” he says. “Where are my shoes?”

“By the door, dumbass.”

There they are, in plain sight, if only he was thinking clearly enough to look. Could have saved himself twenty Gil.

It's only money. It won't matter in the long run.

He leaves without saying thanks or goodbye.

Goodbyes are for friends.

Seifer is no friend of his.

 

 

Confined to a wheelchair for six weeks to allow his legs to properly heal, Zell was moved from the infirmary to a temporary dorm in the same wing. For monitoring, Dr. Kadowaki said.

Zell wasn't stupid. She'd heard him begging for mercy while asleep, heard him scream himself awake. She thought he was going to crack up and lose his shit. It wasn't his physical body she wanted to keep an eye on.

It still hurt to breathe, and taking care of basic needs was a chore. Even with accommodations, he struggled. Pain was his constant companion.

_Whatever happens, happens._

It happened. It was over. He didn't think about it. He _couldn't_.

Quistis brought lunch every day - healthy meals full of protein and calcium and iron to help him heal. He would have killed for a couple hot dogs instead, but didn't ask.

He faked his way through it, choked down bits of kale and grilled chicken and smiled and laughed at the tidbits of gossip and at the desperate antics of Quistis' fan club. Their numbers dwindled over the years, but the ones that remained were the die-hards, the obsessives, the inappropriate.

“You're looking better,” she said. “More color in your cheeks today.”

He looked ghastly. The bruises had turned a nasty, greenish-yellow, the white of his eye was still stained red and the skin around it purple and swollen.

“Is there anything you want to talk about?” she asked. “I won't judge.”

Zell looked away. He was okay. As long as he didn't think about it.

“It's cool,” Zell said. “Looking forward to getting out of this bed, though. Hate sitting still. I can feel my muscles shrinking.”

Quistis offered a tentative smile. She had doubts. Doubts that he'd ever work as a SeeD again. Doubts that he would heal enough to return to his former fitness. That he would be okay in the long run.

“I was thinking,” she said. “There's an instructor position opening up for the spring semester -”

“And what? I retire and teach?” he asked.

“I think you'd be good at it,” she said.

“You mean you think I'm done,” he said. “I'm too fucked up.”

“I think you've been through a lot and need time to recover,” she said. “You almost died, Zell. That's not something to take lightly.”

Zell pinched the bridge of his nose and regretted it. Now his face hurt and Dr. Kadowaki cut off the intravenous meds two days ago. Didn't want him to develop a dependence on them.

Too late. He already craved them the way he used to crave hot dogs, plump and juicy and straight off the grill.

“Stop treating me with kid gloves, alright?” he said. “I'll be fine once I can get the hell out of here and go back to work.”

“Zell – that's what I'm trying to tell you,” Quistis said. “That was your last mission. I'm sorry to be the one to break the bad news, but barring some miracle –”

“What?!”

Zell sat up. Pain tore through his rib cage. He ignored it.

“Who decided this?!”

“Zell, listen to me –”

“No! I'm gonna be fine, alright? I can still work!”

“You're nearing retirement age, anyway,” Quistis said. “We all are. If you haven't noticed. Everyone is taking on administrative duties within the year.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” he cried. SeeD was all he knew. “I want to talk to whoever decided to put me out to pasture! I'm fine! I can still work!”

Quistis adopted her old instructor posture and looked down her nose at him.

“Of course you can,” she said. “Just not as a SeeD.”

Zell balled his hands into fists and regretted it. That, too, hurt.

“Think about it, okay? In the meantime, I want you to talk to a counselor,” she said. “It will help with your recovery.”

Zell didn't think it would.

After all, there were things he would never say out loud.

 

 

Zell arrives five minutes before his next class starts – advanced hand to hand combat for seniors – and hurries to his dorm. If he's quick, he can change into his uniform and still make it.

When he opens the door of his dorm, Squall is sitting at his desk. Zell already knows why he's there before he even says it.

It's almost a relief.

It's not that he hates teaching. There are moments when he imagines himself owning the role, becoming a favorite instructor with a fan club of his own, but can't muster the enthusiasm for it. His day is divided between the hours he can punish himself and the hours he has to pretend he's not aching for a drink, for another pill, for the end to come.

This is the last veil hanging between life and death. His days as a SeeD are done. There's nothing left to stick around for. Like his Ma, his friends are tired of watching him circle the drain.

“It's cool,” Zell says. “I expected this.”

“It's not cool,” Squall says. “I'm worried about you.”

“Psh. All you guys do is worry,” Zell says. “You don't gotta. I'm good.”

It's a lie and they both know it.

Squall drops a business card on the desk and taps it with a fingertip.

“I know you don't want our help,” Squall says, “but...”

“I don't need rehab, man.”

“And I don't want to lecture,” Squall says. “Just consider it.”

He stands up. He seems so much taller than Zell remembers. So much more put together and confident. This is a man who is used to being in charge. A man who has embraced his role. Zell feels like a tiny bug under the sole of his boot.

Squall grasps Zell's shoulder lightly. He gives it a squeeze and bows his head.

“I tried to get you a sabbatical,” Squall says. “To get your shit together.”

“Lemmie guess,” Zell says. “The board said no.”

“They think you're a lost cause.”

“Maybe they're right,” Zell says.

Squall's hand grips tighter.

“Don't say that.”

“I just mean, you know, I never really recovered physically, and it sucks and how can I teach people stuff that I can't do anymore? Really messes with me,” Zell said. “Anyway, thanks for giving me a shot, man. 'Preciate it.”

Squall nods and pats Zell's shoulder.

“Call that number, Zell.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”

Zell pitches the card into the trash as soon as Squall is gone, then he begins the daunting task of packing up nearly twenty years of his life into boxes and milk crates.

It occurs to him, he has nowhere to go when he leaves here.

 

 

Zell was debriefed a week later.

The board assembled in a meeting room on the third floor to hear his version of events. Many of them were people Zell didn't know. Investors. People who didn't know jack shit about what SeeDs did, nor did they care. They were after profits, and Zell was no longer financially viable.

He was in hostile territory. He knew it the second Squall wheeled him to the table and set the brake on his chair.

“Just the facts,” Squall said. “As much as you remember.”

Zell clenched his teeth and tugged at the toggles of his uniform. The jacket was too lose. He'd lost weight. Muscle mass. He was shrinking.

Squall crouched beside him and laid a hand against his forearm. Around them strangers shook hands and talked hockey stats. Zell flinched and pulled his arm away.

“Listen, I know,” Squall said. “This is bullshit, but has to be done.”

“What good will it do?” Zell snapped. “You know the intel was bad, you know it was a clusterfuck from the start, so what's the point?”

“I don't know anymore,” Squall said quietly. “But once this is done, you don't ever have to talk about it again if you don't want to.”

“I don't want to talk about it now!”

“Not so loud,” Squall said under his breath. “I'll try to keep this short as possible.”

“Seems like everyone's already made up their minds, so I don't see why this is even a thing I gotta do.”

Squall cast his gaze tot he side.

“Procedure,” he said.

“Fuck procedure,” Zell muttered.

“For what it's worth, I'm sorry,” Squall said. “And off the record, you're one of the best I've got. I don't want to see you go.”

Squall had come a long, long way from the reluctant leader he once was. Compliments were still rare, but he gave them when they were earned.

It was enough to take the venom out of him. Zell slumped in his chair and offered a fist for bumping. Squall returned it and flashed a sad smile.

“Whatever happens, we're still friends,” Squall said.

“Thanks, man.”

Xu called the meeting to order just as Cid Kramer entered the room. Zell tracked him through the room and noted how diminished he looked. He'd lost weight. His hair was almost completely gray. Why he was here now, when he hadn't been involved in almost ten years, was a mystery.

“Let's get started,” Xu said. “Everyone take a seat.”

Squall took his place beside her and flipped open a file. Mission details, Zell assumed. A clinical description of things that couldn't be described with words.

She went through the scope of the meeting with the board.

Galbadia had contracted SeeD for a joint mission to track down and eliminate a dangerous cult that was believed to be dealing in stolen firearms, polygamy, and fraud.

It was worse than that. So, so much worse.

Zell was supposed to be the tech guy who remotely monitored the undercover team and provide back-up if needed. That was all.

They had a guy on the inside from the G-army already. He'd been in for over a year, feeding info back to Galbadia. A plan was devised to take the group down.

Zell hacked the state-of the art security system. That gave him access to video feeds from inside the compound.

He saw and heard things that had him puking out the back of his surveillance vehicle more than once. It was so bad, he asked for permission to move on the compound immediately. He was denied. Galbadia firmly believed more evidence was needed. What they knew was at odds with everything Zell witnessed.

What he saw was not only a stockpile of stolen weapons, but a leader who believed he had exclusive rights to the bodies of members in his group. Including minors. Some of those young girls were Jacyn Marconi's wives. Some of the boys he called his pets. Sometimes he shared them with other high-ranking members.

After three days, Zell wanted to set the whole place on fire. He wanted to burn his brain to rid himself of images scorched into his retinas.

“They knew we were there,” Zell said. “Galbadia's agent tipped them off. He'd been feeding the G-Army false reports for a while. I'd say about ninety percent of the information was bullshit.”

“Language,” Xu said. “Why would the G-Army agent become a double?”

“Can't say,” Zell said, “but I gotta theory the guy played his part so well, he started to believe he was one of them.”

“And who decided to take Marconi hostage?”

“SeeD Clancy,” Zell said. “He didn't have much of a choice. They were onto us.”

“And that's when they came for you.”

“Yeah.”

“They knew you were there?”

“Yeah. Clancy had shared details with the Galbadian operative, as per our mission directives,” Zell said. “At the time, he wasn't aware the man was compromised.”

“You reported your concerns to the client,” Squall said. “Is that correct?”

“I reported it repeatedly,” Zell said. “I attempted to share video, but I wasn't able to transmit due to the terrain. The satellite feed back to Galbadia worked for about two hours a day.”

“What exactly did you see that was so pertinent you went against mission directives?” a man Zell didn't know asked.

“They were messing with kids, man,” he said. His voice shook. He couldn't unsee what he saw. “That dude had at least twelve wives and none of them were older than sixteen. And it wasn't only the girls he was messing with.”

Zell lost his voice. He rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Forget the guns and stuff, okay?” he said. “That's bad enough, but those kids didn't have a choice about being there or about what was being done to them, and I couldn't just sit there and watch and not do anything about it. If I'm wrong for that, then fire me.”

“Nobody's getting fired,” Squall said. “I know this is tough, but you're not on trial.”

“We're just trying to ascertain the facts,” Xu said. “We need to understand what happened.”

“You know what happened,” Zell snapped. “I don't get why I've gotta go through this again.”

Squall laid a hand on the table.

“I suggest we take a ten minute break,” he said.

“I believe we should move on,” a different man said. “We need the facts.”

“We also need the witness to feel comfortable giving us those facts,” Squall fired back. “He needs a minute to collect himself.”

Zell appreciated it, but a few minutes would change nothing. Not his feelings or the scars left behind.

“I'm okay, Squall,” Zell said. “I just want to get through this.”

“If you're sure,” Squall said.

“I am.”

“Then please continue...”

 

 

  
The hotel is booked solid. So are the smaller, less fancy places down by the beach.

Zell's belongings are stashed in the trunk and back seat of his car. He's already eaten two of the pink pills and chased them with a pint of liquor. Too drunk for Ma to take pity on him.

Well.

Maybe tonight's the night he finally pulls the metaphorical trigger. Maybe he'll find the right combination of pills and alcohol to put him to sleep for good.

He parks near the harbor at dusk and walks two blocks to the liquor store, buys a trio of bottles, and sets up camp under the dock once the fishermen have left for the night. He swallows pill after pill and drinks until he can't see straight.

Then he writes a letter. It's short this time. Just two words. A plea, penned in sloppy, uneven letters.

_Help me._

 

 

“Were you aware you were about to be detained?” Xu asked.

“I had about three minutes notice,” Zell said.

“And what happened then?”

“I cleared out, got a head start, but they cut me off and forced me to the edge of a cliff.”

“You chose to jump.”

“I wasn't gonna just give up,” Zell said.

“And that's how you broke your legs?”

“Yeah. Wrist, too.”

The fall sucked. He could still remember hitting the rocks below with both feet. A perfect landing, if not for the sickening snap of bone and the instant urge to pass out or puke.

“That's when you were captured?” Xu asked. “Did you surrender?”

“No,” Zell said. “Tried to crawl away. Fought 'em when they got to me. One of them hit me in the face with some kind of club and that was the last thing I remember for a while.”

Squall drummed his fingers against the table and nodded slightly. A signal to continue.

“I woke up in the compound, duck taped to some kind of table. Like, a surgical one,” he said. His voice faltered. He couldn't say what came next. “Tried to get information out of me.”

“How?” Xu asked.

“How do you think?” Zell snaped back.

“What methods did they use?”

“Pain, mostly. Made some threats against my team and my family,” he said. “But it was usual stuff. Break a finger. Poke the wounds that are already there. Water, electrocution, stress positions – ”

Zell stopped talking. There was nothing more to say.

“Why didn't they kill you?” Xu asked.

“They told me they'd spare my life in exchange for Marconi.”

“What did you tell them?”

“I told them to fuck off.”

Some of the board members winced.

“Hey, manners don't matter when someone's got a taser to your neck, alright?” he snapped. “Get over it.”

The corner of Squall's mouth twitched. His eye too.

“What then?”

“I don't remember. I lost a few hours after that,” Zell lied. “Hit me in the head pretty good.”

“What is the next thing you do remember?”

“The standoff,” Zell said. “They left me alone with this kid as a guard. He was pretty young. Maybe twelve or so. He was armed, but scared.”

“And this boy was the one who released you?”

“Yeah,” Zell said. “I convinced him to let me go.”

There was more to it than a child having pity on him. More than Zell having a way with words. The kid had seen everything. All of it. A witness to the crime. A victim himself.

“You know what happened after that better than I do," Zell said. “We done here? I need my rest.”

“I think that wraps it up,” Squall said. “Xu?”

Xu nodded and closed the file.

“We'll let you know if we have any further questions.”

“Yeah, sure,” Zell said.

Squall returned him to the medical dorm without a word. He helped Zell back into bed and ensured his still-healing legs were propped up on pillows before he took a seat in the chair beside the bed.

“Was that everything?” Squall asked.

“Everything I remember.”

“Are you sure?”

Zell looked him right in the eye and lied.

“I'm sure.”

 

  
Zell caps the bottle and tosses it as far as he can. It lands a few feet away in the sand. Not far enough. It didn't reach the water. It has to go in the sea with all the others.

He gets up on all fours and crawls toward it, but he's too dizzy. He thinks he might puke, but it has to stay down if it's to do the job. He needs those pills to mingle with the alcohol and become a toxic dose that will take him out for good.

Earlier, he could have talked to Squall. He could have kept that card. He didn't. Now he's here, dragging himself through the sand with arms and legs that won't cooperate.

He can't even do this right. He's a coward. Seifer's right. He's a chicken-wuss too scared to end things for good.

Thoughts of Seifer must have summoned him. His ghost or spirit or whatever looms to the left, scraggly and bedraggled and reeking of fish.

“Oh, fuck _off_ ,” Zell says. Sand gets in his mouth and he spits it out. “Just leave me _alone_.”

Seifer picks up his bottle. Uncaps it and tips the neck toward the ground. The message slides out.

“Don't,” Zell says.

Seifer ignores him and unrolls the scrap of paper. He considers it for far too long. Zell closes his eyes and waits for the mocking and derision to come. All he gets is a tired sigh.

He wants to throw up. He's going to throw up. He _can't_.

“Jus' lemmie die,” Zell says. He doesn't spit the sand out this time. It sticks to his tongue. “Lemmie die.”

Seifer ignores that, too. He takes out a blade – a fillet knife – and lays the edge against Zell's throat. It's cold and slithers along his skin like a trickle of ice water.

“As me nicely,” Seifer says, “and I'll put you out of your misery.”

Bile rises to the back of Zell's throat. He tastes acid on the back of his tongue and his mouth fills with pre-vomit saliva.

“You want to die, I'll help you,” Seifer says. “But you have to ask _nicely_. I want to hear you beg."

Zell's heart is beating too fast. This was an end he never thought of before, and all he has to do is ask to make it happen. Seifer will gladly kill him. There's no love lost between them.

All he has to do is ask.

“Tell me the truth,” Seifer says softly. “Do you want to die?”

Yes.

No.

 _No_.

Zell squeezes his eyes shut. Tears leak from the corners and streak through the sand caked on his face. He wants to die, but not at Seifer's hand. He's going out on his own terms.

The blade presses harder into his flesh and there's a sting when it cuts through a thin layer of skin. This is real. This could be real. All he has to do is say yes. _Yes, kill me_. And then it will all be over, and he won't hurt or hate himself or wake up every day feeling like there's no place for him in this world.

“Well? Do you?”

 


End file.
